Back on the road:
And back to Huesca:
The roads were pretty dead on the way up north from Madrid. It was a little like Nevada, only not as ugly and had fa few more turns. While cruising safely, but not quite doing the speed limit, I spotted two motorcyclists in the distance. As a precaution, I slowed to 5 over with them still a good 1km of asphalt between us. I crept up on 'em slowly, then they slowed to exit on a vacant turn-off. As I thought: Policia. I gave them a wave.
Knowing the 'leapfrog' trick, I watched my rear view mirror expecting to see the now small blue dots recede in the distance--tiny blue and white dots that got larger and larger until each mirror was filled. They hadn't seen me break any laws, so I wasn't worried about a ticket, but I was not happy that I'd be stuck at 100km/hr until the next exit (which was at least 10km away).
45 long minutes passed (ok, maybe 10), and about 2km prior to an upcoming exit one went by on my left to box me in in front. It was kind of ridiculous, as if the biker cop in front could in any way prevent me from rabbiting. Not that I had ANY desire to do so, but attempting to prevent an escape sometimes triggers the urge to. It might have just been the warfare-inclined nature of my personality, but sometimes the assumption of a fight sparks the inclination to do just that.
But restraint, restraint. I pulled over and the one who did all the talking was agitated, hostile. I, of course, had little idea what the sounds coming out of his mouth meant and less of an idea how to create sounds back that would assist with me removing myself from this situation. But once we switched to English....ahhh, my plate! You don't like the location? Yeah...all this because, despite being perfectly unobstructed from behind, my plate is not hanging off of a fender. He was insistent that I immediately fix it and quite passionately explained the importance of vehicle name tag placement.
It was around this point I realized that, prior to leaving this morning, I discovered in an often unused pocket of my backpack, a small, clear plastic bag containing a substance I acquired in Amsterdam. Wanting to dispose of it before it led to any sort of restriction of freedom, I had placed both it and its contents in the right front pocket of my Dainese leather pants--the same Dainese pants that I happened to be wearing; the same Dainese leather pocket I tend to always forget to zip. A glance down confirmed that today was not one of the days I happened to remember, nor was it a day in which the contents of said pocket were liberated on their own by the wind.
Not relieved in the least bit that my backpack and the direction I was headed actually supported my explanation that neither me nor the audacious placement of my California plate would be a menace to the Kingdom of Spain much longer, he warbled on as I moved my head rhythmically to his melody--proof that one can enjoy a good song even if the lyrics were written for someone else completely (or ignored altogether).
After some conversation amongst themselves, I was given permission to continue on. Not wanting to decrease their less-than-cheerful dispositions, I decided it would be in my best interest to resist the desire to capture the moment with a photograph. I can only hope my words have painted an adequate picture.
